


Benediction

by WoodsWitch



Series: Flights of Fancy [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic visitation, Cooking, Demonic insecurity, Domestic, Established Relationship, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Other, Religious Ecstasy, Song of Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: Flights of Fancy, part 2:The angel blinked in confusion. "Why would you want to imagine you were a human? You didn't think I...""No, no," Crowley said quickly. "I didn't think you were shagging humans, or falling in love with them. Well. Not for long, anyway." He flashed the angel a mischievous grin.I'm kidding. "Handful of decades tops, right? Hardly serious competition for me. No, it was just clearlyless complicatedfor you to like humans. They weren't The Enemy, you had full permission to talk to them and be nice to them. Even touch them, if the situation called for it. And sometimes...Well."In which Crowley's imaginary alter-ego Sister Antonia gets an angelic visitation.(No actual human-style sex in this one, if that's what you're here for - just rather intense religious ecstasy and quotations from the ancient erotic poem that for some reason is part of the bible)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Flights of Fancy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867303
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Benediction

Crowley lounged against the wall of the bookshop kitchen, drinking an espresso as Aziraphale made breakfast. The angel had taken up cooking as an economizing measure during a brief period in which neither of them could perform miracles1. Despite a few false starts that had included exploding boef bourguignon and crepes with the consistency of a rubber mat, he had become quite good at it, and had not stopped experimenting with recipes since. The demon was not much for human food himself, but had found that he liked watching Aziraphale humming and frowning over his pots - stirring, tasting, adding a pinch of this or a dash of that - almost as much as he liked watching him eat. As a result, one day the minimalist bookshop kitchenette was startled to discover that it had expanded by 100 square feet and acquired a slate tile floor and a full sized cooker and refrigerator. This morning's creation was lemon ricotta pancakes with strawberries.

"You know," Crowley remarked as the angel plated them, in a mild but teasing tone, "I still can't believe you managed to convince yourself that I wasn't romantically interested in you." He'd been mulling it over for a few days, ever since Aziraphale had confessed a rather surprising fantasy he'd concocted about how he might be able to work with that situation. "You even referenced my tendency to show up with boxes of chocolate and things _in_ the story you told yourself about how making do with friendship-plus-lust wouldn't be so bad."

Aziraphale made an exasperated noise and sat down primly at the kitchen table. "Exactly - I assumed it was a friendly gesture! Friends buy each other gifts, you know."

Crowley swung around the other chair and draped himself over it, leaning his arms on the back. He plucked a strawberry off of Aziraphale's plate and chewed it thoughtfully. "Sure, for birthdays and things; not every other time they meet! Hell, we were going on dinner dates more than a thousand years before humans really caught on to the concept." The demon grinned. "Although I suppose, since that was _your_ idea, you assumed I was asking you out three times as often just to be polite?" He stole another bite, this time a lump of pancake.

The angel raised an eyebrow. " _Polite_ isn't exactly your brand, dear." He had, in fact, told himself the dinners were just friendly, or possibly a form of low-grade temptation2.

Then Aziraphale frowned. "Wait, what do you mean the dinner dates were _my_ idea?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. First-century Rome? The oysters?"

"Ah. Well, in retrospect, you are probably correct." The angel thought about it for a moment, then added: "But if that is how we are defining a _date_ , that surely wasn't our first. First proper _dinner date_ , maybe, but you were flirting with me and tempting me to eat and drink with you long before that. Since at least, hmm, at least that time you insisted we check out the place that made fermented date and lemongrass cocktails."

Crowley groaned elaborately. "No, no, no! You _cannot_ declare that our first date! That was a _literal_ disaster! Nothing involving mob violence or either of our bosses showing up and wrecking the place gets to count3."

"Of course, you're right," the angel agreed quickly. "Never mind - That can't actually have been the first, anyway." He searched his memory again. "Ah! What about that picnic in Nod? We ate honeyed almonds on that hill by a river, and drank some of the first wine4."

"Oh, yeah! That was nice." Crowley looked thoughtful. "Does it count as a picnic, though, if tables and things didn't exist yet?"

Aziraphale gave him a look that said: _And you think I'm the pedantic one?_ "Well, _houses_ did, and we were outdoors, so..."

The demon grinned. "OK. Picnic in Nod it is."

That issue settled, Aziraphale sipped his tea and ate his pancakes. Crowley watched him fondly, enjoying every little pleased hum, every flick of that pink tongue chasing a crumb or a drop of strawberry juice. Apparently knowing better than to disrupt the moment, the demon's coffee cup refilled itself.

Then Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Er, Crowley..."

"Hmm?" the demon replied, distracted. He had been mentally translating the date of that picnic to figure out when it would have fallen in the modern calendar. One could really never have enough anniversaries.

"Seeing as you were the one who was first consciously aware of the fact that we'd been dating for almost the entirety of human history, I have to ask...why?"

"What do you mean _why_?" Crowley replied in an aggrieved tone. "Because I wanted an excuse to spend time with you, and to do stuff that would make you smile at me instead of doing the judgy angel face, that's why!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "I know _that_. What I _meant_ was... Well, a friendship does have to grow from _something_ , of course, but after that it just _is_. It doesn't have to change, barring outside circumstances, and usually one prefers that it doesn't. Whereas a, a courtship is aiming at something, at a distinctly different sort of relationship. So...what was your goal? It clearly wasn't what most people would _assume_ that a demon would intend in pursuing an angel, and surely neither of us dared to imagine _this_." He waved his fork in a gesture that encompassed not just the kitchen, or even the bookshop as a whole, but also the fact that they now lived in it together as both romantic and business partners. A fact acknowledged and accepted not only by their human friends but also, grudgingly, by their former employers.

Crowley sighed deeply, and leaned his chin on his arms. "I tried not to think about it much, to be honest. Because, if I _did_ , it was obvious - or at least it seemed obvious at the time - that I couldn't have it. Even setting aside the extremely unpleasant consequences of getting caught, well, you seemed...untouchable." He gave the angel a crooked smile. "I mean, I was pretty sure you liked me. But I was also pretty sure there were some lines I was never going to get past. Or, if I did, you would regret it and the whole thing would blow up in my face. So I just...didn't have an ultimate goal, really. Just to be with you in whatever way you wanted that wouldn't put you in too much danger."

Aziraphale's lip quivered, and he took the demon's long-fingered hands in his, kissing the knuckles gently. "Oh, my poor darling." Grey eyes gazed plaintively into golden serpentine ones. "I'm sorry you were ever in such doubt."

Crowley swallowed. "'S all right, Angel." He hoped Aziraphale wasn't about to go all self-flagellating. It was too pleasant a morning for that. "Probably the third-best _being wrong_ of my life5. Was a little torturous, adoring you from afar, but not always _bad_ torturous. If that makes sense."

A thought must have struck the angel, as he suddenly looked less apologetic than he did suspicious. "Um, Crowley. You didn't happen to invent that whole courtly love thing, did you? Because this sounds rather familiar."

The demon shifted guiltily. "Maybe. Like, not single-handedly. But I did drink a lot of wine with French poets in the 11th century, so..."

Aziraphale's mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. "I see. You really thought I was _that_ inherently unattainable?"

Crowley snorted. "Uh, yeah? You are _literally_ an angel. Not to mention that, in most times and places, you were barely willing to touch my shoulder to get my attention. Well, unless one or both of us were drunk, but obviously I wasn't going to read too much into that."

Aziraphale remembered how much time in the thousand or so years between Eden and the Flood he'd spent thinking about Crowley's - well, Crawly's - iridescent black feathers and shining copper locks, wondering what they would have felt like if he'd had the courage to touch them.

"Well, it's not that I didn't _want_ to, it just didn't seem _wise_. Though you may have put your finger on a facet of our wine fixation I hadn't considered."

Certainly their consumption had gotten a lot more moderate now that neither of them needed an excuse to express their feelings, or to drape an arm over the other's shoulder, or lay their legs across the other's lap6.

"We're obviously both idiots," Crowley concluded. "At least _you_ more clearly picked up on the fact that I wanted you in _some_ capacity beyond what we already had going." The demon sighed. "Sometimes, you know, I used to imagine I was someone else. Some _thing_ else, I should say."

 _Something else?_ Aziraphale wondered briefly if the demon meant Unfallen - that he'd thought Aziraphale would have preferred if he had still been an angel. He didn't speak that thought, though. It was too heartbreaking, and too sensitive a topic if he was wrong. Crowley still sometimes struggled to fully believe that Aziraphale loved him _because_ of who he was, not _in spite_ of his being a demon, and the angel was not going to remind him of that if he hadn't already been thinking it. Instead, he just said: "What do you mean? What kind of something?"

"Well, uh. Human." The demon looked embarrassed.

The angel blinked in confusion. "Why would you want to imagine you were a human? You didn't think I..."

"No, no," Crowley said quickly. "I didn't think you were shagging humans, or falling in love with them. Well. Not for long, anyway." He flashed the angel a mischievous grin. _I'm kidding._ "Handful of decades tops, right? Hardly serious competition for me. No, it was just clearly _less complicated_ for you to like humans. They weren't The Enemy, you had full permission to talk to them and be nice to them. Even touch them, if the situation called for it. And sometimes...Well."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Um, do you remember that job you asked me to do with the nuns? The one where you got mad at me for getting a little carried away?"

"Yes..?" the angel said carefully, suspecting where this was going.

Crowley ruffled a hand through his hair, and flushed a bit. "I, uh...I may have been _projecting_ , a little."

~~~

Mother Superior regarded the skinny young sister narrowly. "An angel, you say?"

"Yes, Mother. He has silver hair, and a round face, and kind grey eyes." The nun's own golden-brown eyes were wide and earnest-looking.

"And what makes you so sure _he_ , who comes to you at night, is an angel?" the older woman challenged her. "You are aware, Sister Antonia, are you not, that a demon may disguise himself as an angel of light to tempt the unwary?"

Sister Antonia shook her head. "Oh, I'm sure he's not _that_ , Mother. He's never tempted me to anything improper, though he's _very_ handsome. But not like Saint Michael and the others are painted in the church, all muscles and stern looks. He's sort of soft and comfortable. When he comes I just feel...floaty. With a great sense of love like a big warm blanket. Well, except for the time he noticed I'd left a book sitting face down on my table and got very tetchy until I closed it. He said I'd ruin the spine."

The Mother Superior sighed. "Have you been eating enough, child? Getting enough sleep?"

"Well, I have been fasting since last week, in honor of Saint Theresa," Sister Antonia admitted.

 _That was always the trouble with these enthusiastic youngsters_ , the Mother Superior thought. _Always starving themselves into hallucinations_. "Hmm. Well, I order you to go to the refectory and get yourself a proper meal. Then we'll see if this angel comes back, shall we?"

Later that evening, Sister Antonia knelt by her bed. She had put off her black veil and white capuche for the night, revealing her bright coppery curls, and had hung up her white mantle on a hook. But she still wore her brown habit and scapular. To sleep without the latter, which represented the protection of the Blessed Mother7, was considered a serious fault. Sister Antonia tried to be obedient. She mostly failed, but this, at least, she could manage.

When she had finished the standard prayers, she lay down on the narrow cot, contemplating the scriptures. Specifically, the part of the scripture that had always spoken most directly to her:

"As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among young men," she whispered. "With great delight I sat in his shadow, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his intention toward me was love. Sustain me with raisins, refresh me with apples; for I am faint with love."

Such words would seem blasphemous were they not in the scriptures, confirmed as the word of God. As it was, what could they be but praise of the Lord?

"O, that his left hand were under my head, and that his right hand embraced me! I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, by the gazelles or the wild does; do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready."

' _You are altogether beautiful, my love',_ a soft voice echoed, ' _there is no flaw in you. You have ravished my heart with a glance from your eyes'._

When had the angel come? Or, perhaps, had he always been there, invisibly accompanying her, her own guardian? Was it prideful to think so, to fancy this glowing, ethereal being was somehow hers?

"My beloved is all radiant and ruddy, distinguished among ten thousand," she murmured, as the angel bent over her and kissed her brow. "His head is the finest gold, his locks are wavy. His eyes are like doves beside springs of water. His lips are lilies, distilling liquid myrrh. His body is ivory work, encrusted with sapphires. His speech is most sweet, and he is altogether desirable. This is my beloved and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."

Sister Antonia was dimly aware that her body was being lifted up off her bed, supported somehow in the immaterial arms of the angel. _If anyone saw me now_ , she thought, _it might look like I was floating_. But who could care for how it might look, when the warmth and comfort of that insubstantial embrace was so great?

The angel's glowing wings fanned out around her, so bright and beautiful they almost hurt to look at. _Daughter of God, you are beloved,_ she heard his voice say, and though it was gentle the power behind it made her tremble. _Do you trust in this?_

"Yes, yes, I do," she whispered. "Unworthy as I am, I do."

Then she saw that the angel held a flaming sword in his hand. Without hesitation, and with that look of love still on his face, he thrust it into her belly. Sister Antonia gasped and writhed at the pain that shot through her vitals, burning without consuming. And yet it was sweet too, sweet as the taste of honey on her tongue. The angel withdrew his sword, and she moaned at the loss of that bittersweet pain. But then it plunged again into her heart, and she cried out in ecstasy. The white-hot love that poured through her at every thrust of the angel's sword was overwhelming and wonderful. It was agonizing, and yet she never wanted it to stop.

Just when it was becoming hard to breathe, when had begun to wonder if her mortal form would be entirely burned away by that blessed fire, the pain vanished. The sword was gone, and she fancied that the angel held her to his breast. But she was not sure, because she was not entirely sure who _she_ was anymore. Was she a weak mortal woman, blessed beyond her deserving by this angelic visitation? Was she a candle flame, merging into another as the wicks were held together - potentially separable, but for this moment one? Or was she a stream, rushing forward to join the sea, to mingle her parts with that greater whole until no one might tell where one ended and the other began?

How long she floated in that sea of light she could not have said. Hours? Days? Centuries? Sister Antonia neither knew nor cared, aware of nothing but love and oneness. Eventually, however, that light began to fade. She was dropped gently back into herself. Her mortal body was in a trembling, boneless state, her mind quite unable to process what her soul had experienced. The angel with his bright curls was bending over her once more, lowering her onto her bed. The expression in his grey eyes - so cool and calm, compared to the rest of his fiery form - was fond.

 _Sleep, daughter_ , he said.

"Don't go," she whispered hoarsely.

 _Divine love is always with you, my child_ , the angel said. _'Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.' Even when you cannot feel it, it is never gone_.

He faded, and she was left in the dark of her cell. But the feeling of languid peace, and the touch of his lips on her forehead, lingered long after.

~~~

Aziraphale puffed out a breath. He was looking rather charmingly pink in the face. "Well! If you were feeling jealous of the humans, I can at least confirm that none of my visitations went quite like that!"

Crowley gave a crooked, rueful smile. "Yeah, sorry about that. I suppose my imagination got a bit overheated there."

"Oh, my dear, I don't mind at all." The angel swung his chair around so that the table was no longer between them, and took Crowley's hand. "But...I hope you know by now, dear boy, I wouldn't have you be anything other than what, and who, you are."

"Yeah, Angel. I know." And he did know, even if it still _felt_ a bit unbelievable.

"Of course," Aziraphale added speculatively, "It would be possible to try something close to that scenario, should you wish to. Not with real Grace, of course - I'm not keen to accidentally set you on fire! But your technique to simulate it is pretty close to what we, or I, um, normally do."

The demon's grin broadened. "Are you suggesting we role-play this story, Angel?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "Only if you wanted to, of course. It could be entertaining. The Song of Songs is strangely appropriate in places, isn't it? And, well. You always did look blasphemously good in clerical garb."

Crowley's golden eyes sparkled mischievously. "Are you thinking of _this_ outfit, by any chance?" He waved a hand over himself, and his contemporary ensemble shifted into a black cassock - closely fitted at the top, flaring into a long skirt at the bottom - and a broad-brimmed black hat 8.

"Hmm. Maybe," Aziraphale conceded.

"I thought I noticed you looking, back then. Then convinced myself it was probably wishful thinking. Of course, there is still a bit missing." Crowley clicked his fingers and a small wooden box appeared on the table. He nodded at the angel to open it.

Aziraphale did, and his breath caught in his throat. "Crowley..." He lifted out a small silver crucifix, still untarnished after more than five centuries. "You _kept_ this?"

"'Course I did. You made it for me."

"Even though you can't touch it?"

"I _can_ , just not too much, or for too long." He had worn it for several months straight after the angel had conjured it around his neck, the faint buzz of it against his chest a constant reminder of the fact that they were actually _working together_ , on purpose, for once. When he had to take it off, it had burned his fingers just a bit, like plucking hot bread out of a toaster oven bare-handed9. Sometimes, over the next few hundred years, when his times apart from the angel had seemed too long to bear, he had pulled that box from its hiding place. With a handkerchief wrapped around it, he could hold the little cross in his hands for up to a few hours, savoring the tingling heat of it. "Seemed kind of an apt metaphor at the time, really."

Aziraphale gently placed the crucifix back in its box, and wrapped his arms around Crowley's neck. "Not anymore, my dear."

 _No_ , Crowley thought, as the angel pulled him down into a kiss and a golden glow surrounded him. _Not anymore._ Now he had a holy thing that hung about his neck without burning in the slightest, a living piece of heaven that welcomed him with open arms. And, really, what greater benediction could any demon ask for than that?

1.Well, technically, miracles were impossible for the angel, and merely inadvisable for him. (See 'A price to pay').Back

2\. One which he was perfectly happy to succumb to. After all, he had reasoned at the time, postponing work to enjoy human food and some good conversation was a very minor sin, surely more than balanced out by virtuously distracting a demon from causing mischief among unsuspecting humans.Back

3\. See "Brimstone and salt"Back

4\. See "Warning coloration"Back

5\. The higher spots going to the incorrect assumptions that 1) Aziraphale had died in the bookshop fire, and 2) that the rather ditzy satanic nun who'd first greeted Crowley in the convent could handle a baby swap correctly. Had either of _those_ been correct, it would probably have been better never to find out about error number three.Back

6\. Not having to drown out the thought of unpleasant orders helped, too.Back

7\. Mary, not Her. Except by proxy, of course.Back

8\. Crowley had last worn this garb when pitting Rodrigo Borgia and Girolamo Savonarola against one another in an effort to restart the Florentine Renaissance. (See "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition")Back

9\. Probably. Being a heat-proof demon who didn't eat much - and certainly didn't bother with anything as boring as toast - Crowley was not in a position to test this analogy.Back

**Author's Note:**

> The story Crowley comes up with here is based on Teresa of Avila, who described some weirdly sexy religious visions, and the statue of her by Bernini that has been spawning "I'll have what she's having" jokes for several hundred years: (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecstasy_of_Saint_Teresa).  
> The nature of Teresa's visions seems to be connected to having a strongly personal, emotional, and love-centered approach to religion in general. While experiencing some of her visions, she was said to levitate, and to find this extremely embarrassing.  
> While she was a little more into extreme ascetic practices than seems healthy, she was at least aware of the possibility that such things could go too far or produce false visions, advising younger nuns who think they are having a divine experience to, say, have a snack and see if it goes away. Her writings were constantly under scrutiny by the Spanish Inquisition, with her commentary on the Song of Songs receiving a particularly hostile reaction. Despite that, she was declared a Doctor of the Church 400 years after her death - a rare distinction for a woman.  
> Though I suspect Crowley would have liked her, he would have been wise to keep his distance, as she was also a strong believer in the efficacy of holy water and tended to have it on hand!  
> Some of my favorite quotes of hers:  
> \- The surest way to determine whether one possesses the love of God is to see whether they love their neighbor. The two loves are never separated. Rest assured, the more you progress in love of neighbor the more your love of God will increase.  
> \- Do not think you have gained a virtue unless you have first been tried by its opposite.  
> \- May God protect me from gloomy saints.


End file.
